


It's In His Kiss

by 221b_hound



Series: Guitar Man [27]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, John and Sherlock undercover, kissing for a case, sort of but not actual M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-25 05:05:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/635418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At their 30th Anniversary retirement party (in The Sweetest Days), John and Sherlock confessed to their gathered friends and family that they'd once kissed for a case. John thought about Sigourney Weaver. Sherlock thought of England. Both say it wasn't the weirdest thing they've ever done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's In His Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from The Shoop Shoop song, originally by Betty Everett and later covered by Cher.

John and Sherlock had engaged in many situations and pursuits both dangerous and hilarious – sometimes simultaneously – during their partnership. There was the whole dressing as ninjas and fighting people in alleyways for The Geek Interpreter case; the dancing competition for The Pirates of Penance case; the week at Cirque de Soleil with John as a sharpshooter and Sherlock as a surprisingly adept tightrope walker for the case where The Walker was Tight but the Rope Wasn’t. All pretty much business as usual for the boys of Baker Street.

There was one case that John never wrote up, though, which he thought was a bit of a shame. It certainly had what might be called Features of Interest. In the end, though, it had been an absolute fizzer, and what had looked like an eight turned out to be a nil. Nada. Nul Point. Sherlock was peevish and disgruntled and John thought it was a lot of outrageous play-acting effort gone to waste.

Nevertheless, whenever the subject came up, however obliquely, John would start laughing. Then Sherlock would start laughing. Then they’d stop for a while before one or the other would spontaneously start up again and off they’d go. And they wouldn’t explain it to anyone. Not until that distant day, at their 30th anniversary party in their Sussex cottage, where they dropped their little bombshell that there was that one time – just that one time – when they’d kissed. For a case.

The whole thing had started promisingly with a vanishing twenty-something heir and the missing designer frocks belonging to his mother. The eightness of it all had arisen with the young man’s bloody thumbprint on a fake driver’s licence belonging to a woman. Add a weird hang-up call to the boy’s wealthy but foul-tempered grandfather and the delivery to the old man of the boy’s family signet ring in a coffin-shaped jewellery box, and Sherlock had been interested enough to nose around for answers.

The trail led to a cruise for gay couples in the Greek islands. That discovery led inevitably to John and Sherlock posing as a couple and joining the vessel at its second port of call.

This case certainly wasn’t worse than any of the other dangerous/hilarious cases had been. Being confined on a cruise ship for gay couples was more fun than the notoriously strict circus, just because of the amount of dancing for a start. Importantly,  John’s limited acting skills were not put to the test as for the most part he could just be himself. Many of the men on board were no more camp than the not-at-all camp Inspector Dimmock, who had finally married his boyfriend last year.  

To begin with, John dutifully made a point of checking out other men’s arses for verisimilitude until Sherlock pointed out that this made John look like a bad boyfriend, and he desisted. By the end of day one, he mostly he just scowled at those men who were clearly checking out Sherlock’s arse, and moved possessively closer to him (while Sherlock proceeded to flirt with anyone who thought might provide further clues on the heir’s location and fate) and that proved to be almost good enough in maintaining their cover. Almost.

John felt a little bad about the whole being-a-couple deception, but at the time they believed a life depended on it, and with no disrespect intended, John figured he’d have to throw himself into the role a bit. Of course, they shared a cabin, and therefore a bed, but they shared a platonic bed from time to time anyway and Sherlock was on the case, so sleep was designated a waste of thinking time. When not prowling around the ship looking for clues or, more directly, the heir, John spent his time with a hand on Sherlock’s waist, holding his hand, or smiling indulgently while Sherlock draped himself all over John in what was pretty much their usual pattern at home.

There was one problem, though. One crack in the cover, not obvious at first but Sherlock was increasingly aware that it was exciting comment. ‘It’ being the fact that John and Sherlock (going under the name of Simon) never kissed in public.

Sherlock instantly began bestowing occasional kisses on John’s shoulder, hand, cheek, but the murmurs continued and it was interfering with the work. People were spending too much time speculating about them, so when Sherlock tried to winnow information out of people, he found himself being not-too-subtly interrogated instead.

Sherlock complained to John about it. John thought about the problem for about five minutes and then, rather incautiously said: “So, what, you want us to kiss Hollywood-style on the dance floor to shut them up?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John,” said Sherlock with a flick of his hand, “If we start we’ll need to continue to keep up the charade and that’s going to get annoying. It needs to be something more final, or at least final enough to let me get on with the investigation.”

“Oh.” John frowned, thought about that, realised he had no idea what that meant and asked: “And what, exactly, will that entail?”

Sherlock grinned the kind of grin that made John nervous, but he toed the line, as he usually did, and then leapt into the whole situation boots first, again as per usual.

Sherlock proceeded to spend an hour or so with the passenger well known as a gossip but who viewed himself as the Mr Fix-It of queer relationships. Pat wasn’t a bad bloke, really, but fancied himself a bit of a matchmaker-come-TV-show-relationships-counsellor.  Sherlock later confessed to softening Pat up with oblique references to John’s ‘difficulties’.

“I told him you had a phobia of showing that much affection in public and intimated it was related to your army service. It’s a good cover. Pat will spread the story, people will feel they have an adequate explanation and leave the subject alone out of respect for our privacy.”

“You just didn’t want to have to kiss me on the dance floor,” challenged John.

“Yes, there was that.”

And John laughed.

What Sherlock hadn’t counted on was Pat’s determination to ‘help’ his newfound friends through their ‘sad situation’. Sherlock tried valiantly to assure Pat that everything was fine. John was a perfectly affectionate and loving partner in private.

"No, Simon,” Pat insisted, kindly and persistently, “Whatever things were like in the army, John is safe here. You’re among friends. We understand what it’s like in the mainstream world, but the two of you should be free to show your affection as much as you like here. Seriously, if you can't relax and canoodle on a cruise like this, where can you?"

Pat had bumped into them (or more probably sought them out, deduced Sherlock with an irritated frown) on C deck. He turned to John, with that annoyingly kind and helpful expression. “John, I don’t know what you went through, I won’t pretend to understand, but you’re among friends. Don’t be afraid.”

John, who was afraid of very little except the current possibility of punching the well-meaning, self-righteous interfering little git in the face, tried just to nod.

“You should try it,” said Pat with the exaggerated bright of expression of someone who’d had a bright idea three hours ago and was pretending it had only just occurred to them, “Right now. In front of me. I’m just one person, and you know I’m not going to do anything horrid to you. It’s a little step, but I really think you should take it.”

John grit his teeth. “Thanks Pat. I know you mean well…”

“I want to help you and Simon, John. I don’t think you understand how proud he is of you, and how much he’d like to be able to kiss you in front of the whole world.”

Sherlock managed to not display any surprise at this erroneous bit of thinking, instead choosing to give John a loving and earnest gaze. “I am proud of you, John. I’m proud to be seen with you.”

John gave Sherlock an aggrieved look that could be interpreted as ‘You immense git’ but which Pat chose to interpret as ‘I hate to see you suffer, my darling’.  Pat really wasn’t as good at reading people as he liked to think.

“Anyone could come along this corridor at any moment,” John said tightly.

“How about this, then?” And Pat opened the door behind them which led to the C Deck laundry supplies room, shelves piled with towels and linen, “Private. Just the three of us. Come on, John. For Simon. You should try. You’re in a safe space here.”

They were now at the point where it was easier to get on with it, kiss, and shut Pat the hell up so they could get on with finding the heir, who they now thought was being held prisoner on the crew deck, the deck below D.

“Fine. Fine. Okay. Fine.” John marched into the store room and stood glaring at Sherlock with his arms folded.

“Don’t be like that,” admonished Sherlock gently, following him in, “Pat’s only trying to help.” His tone was gentle, but his gaze, which Pat couldn’t see, was sharp and annoyed. _Let’s do this and get rid of this idiot, John, and stop making a fuss._ He placed his hand on John’s shoulder.

John sighed. “Sorry, babe. It’s just… you know how tense I get.”

“I know. It’s all right. See. We’re practically alone, except for Pat.” Only John could hear how Sherlock practically pronounced ‘Pat’ as ‘Twat’.

“I know. It’s just…” John sighed again and looked at his feet.

Sherlock moved around in the tight space, putting John’s back to Pat, who stood in the doorway, fondly thinking he was protecting them from the prying eyes of the passers-by.

“Kiss him, John. Kiss him like you really mean it. Just remember that you’re safe here. No harm will come to you.”

Sherlock and John looked at each other, and John watched how Sherlock put on his Simon-in-love-with-John face. It was a very convincing face. Pat was certainly convinced.

“It’s all right sweetheart,” Sherlock was saying to him, “We’ll just try. If you don’t like it we’ll stop. I promise. Please, can we try?”

“For you,” said John, not acting much at all, “I’ll try anything. You know that.”

With that, John tilted his face up and placed a hand on Sherlock’s cheek, while Sherlock slid his arms around John’s waist and tilted his face down. Their lips met. They both heard Pat’s excited, encouraging little gasp, and they both knew that this little kiss was not going to cut it.

John raised himself up on his toes to press closer into the kiss. His hand on Sherlock’s cheek stretched, his fingers curling behind Sherlock’s ear, into his hair, while he raised his other hand to hold Sherlock’s jaw. Sherlock drew him into a tighter embrace. Their lips parted and tentatively, tongues met. It was a lovely kiss. Sweet, affectionate, loving.

John gave a small gasp and suddenly buried his face in Sherlock’s neck. His arms curved almost convulsively around the taller man’s chest and he hugged him, hard.

“It’s all right, sweetheart,” said Sherlock softly, rubbing his cheek against John’s hair, “Everything’s all right.”

John simply folded up in Sherlock's arms, quivering against his chest, hands clutched into the back of Sherlock’s shirt, his shoulders heaving. It looked for all the world as though he was breaking down and having a good, solid cry.

Sherlock put on his stricken face. “It's all right, John. It's all right, love, I'm here. We’re safe here. I’m so proud of you. So proud." He kissed the top of John’s head, and John clutched him tighter still. An awful choking sob escaped him.

Sherlock gave a Meaningful Look to Pat, who was giddy with romantic delight at this breakthrough. He gave the distressed couple two thumbs up, but then Sherlock began stroking John’s back soothingly and made his Look more Meaningful still. Pat finally took the hint, backed into the hallway and closed the storeroom door.

“John,” said Sherlock in a dry tone, releasing his friend from his faux-compassionate grip, “You are being completely unprofessional.”

John, whose face had been pressed solidly into Sherlock’s chest to keep quiet, stepped away and shoved a fist into his mouth in a further attempt to keep the laughter at bay. His face was red with the effort and his eyes sparkled with unbridled hilarity. He took a heaving breath, tried valiantly to be sober, and began giggling again.

Sherlock’s mouth quirked in a grin he was also trying to suppress. “John,” he said warningly.

“God, that was weird,” John whispered hoarsely, “ _So_ weird. It was like I was kissing Harry. Only taller.”

“And I fail to see what Mary gets so excited about, kissing you,” Sherlock whispered back, “Barely adequate.”

“Rude,” John swatted Sherlock’s arm.

“I suppose the parameters are different for the two of you.”

“I wasn’t actually trying to take you to bed so, yes, I guess they are.”

“Still, I think we may now have effectively convinced the ship’s main gossip that you had your ability to publicly display affection shot off in the war.”

John snorted a laugh that he hoped might sound like a kind of sob if Pat was still loitering. “Hey, is that little busybody still outside?”

Sherlock manoeuvred past John to listen at the door. “Yes,” he mouthed after a moment.

John rolled his eyes. Then he grinned some more. “In for a penny…?” he suggested.

“In for a pound,” Sherlock agreed.

John looked around and decided the shelving unit was sufficient unto the purpose. He backed up to it and shoved against it with his hips and shoulders. The unit gave a satisfyingly loud creak. He shoved again, then again. He bent his knees, grabbed a shelf with both hands, began rocking it into the wall, gently at first then harder and harder. He fixed Sherlock with a wicked eye and began to moan, bit back the sound a little to make it more convincing,  then let out a hoarse and lusty yell that devolved into exhausted moans of sated pleasure. Then he stuffed his fist into his mouth to stifle the insane amount of giggling that was threatening to undo the charade. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“I suppose it’s my turn now.” Still whispering.

“I’d be a very bad boyfriend if I didn’t take care of you after that clearly spectacular orgasm.”

Sherlock seemed to take this exchange as a challenge, which of course it was. He took a deep breath and then emitted the most erotic noise John had heard from Sherlock’s mouth since that Christmas he’d bought Sherlock the passionfruit and dark chocolate truffles and Sherlock had scoffed the lot in a single sitting.

The moans increased in volume but grew shorter in duration, interspersed with suitably theatrical bursts of ‘yes!’ and ‘there’ and ‘God, more, please, please, baby, please’ until Sherlock  suddenly held his breath for three seconds, four, five, and then released it in a loud, shuddering groan of “Joooooooooooooooohn”.

Sherlock regarded John with an eyebrow that practically read: “I fake orgasms better than you fake orgasms” and John waggled both eyebrows back in a way that practically read “Of course you do, you poncy bastard, I’ve never _had_ to” and then they both started laughing again. Sherlock managed to suppress his response but John had to turn around and bury his face in a pile of clean towels until the moment passed.

“Reckon that’s enough of a floor show?” John whispered, reaching for the door handle.

“Not quite.”

Sherlock reached out to tousle John’s hair, pull his shirt askew and tug his jeans zipper down a half inch. He regarded the result and ruffled the back of John’s hair some more, rubbing his hands through the short cut until it stood up every which way. He then proceeded to rub his own hair to wonderful dishevelment, and rebutton his shirt so that the buttons didn’t match with the buttonholes.  John couldn’t help grinning at the result.

“Do I look as thoroughly shagged as you do, then?”

“You look like you do when you and Mary have engaged in intense foreplay in the corridor before coming inside and running together up to your room.”

“Is that what you've used as a template for your own bed-hair and debauchery look?”

“Yes.”

John considered feeling embarrassed then elected to preen instead. Then he opened the door and the two of them stepped into the corridor wearing immense grins and looking like they had just had the time of their lives. They caught a glimpse of Pat darting away down the corridor, tearing off to make his report, no doubt, on the Tragic Public Life But Most Energetic and Hot Private Life of the happy couple to the rest of the passengers.

After that they made their way to the crew deck, and that’s where the whole debacle fell down in a shambles, because the heir turned out to be less a victim of kidnapping than a wilful runaway. He had joined the cruise as a performer – a cross-dressing torch singer, no less, hence the commandeering of those elegant frocks.

The heir certainly had a beautiful contralto voice, a surprisingly svelte figure and a plan. If only he hadn’t sliced his finger open on that stubborn suitcase lock and then lost the driver’s licence with his female alter ego on it, he would have jumped ship at the end of the cruise and gone away to live the life of a modern Bohemian in Berlin with his boyfriend. The gender reassignment surgery would come along in due course, but in the meantime he’d sent the hated signet ring given to the eldest boy in each family to his even more hated grandfather.  

Sherlock heard the story and concluded that the heir was not in any danger, was over eighteen and was obviously not under any kind of coercion or duress. If, as an adult, the heir wanted to become a disinherited heiress named Ruby and live in romantic penury as a cabaret singer, who was Sherlock to judge? He then handed the bloodstained fake ID to Ruby, who was so beside herself with happiness at the restoration of her plans that she flung her arms around Sherlock and gave him a kiss on the mouth. Sherlock looked like he enjoyed it even less than the kiss with John.

John, who thought Ruby had enough musical talent to succeed as a singer, wished her luck and gave her the number of an old army mate of his who had a club down in old East Berlin. (John had not had a high opinion of the grandfather, an unreconstructed conservative bastard of the worst type.)

So there they were, case closed, but not in any way that could be written up for the blog. Sherlock was in a towering sulk at not having realised the significance of the return of the signet ring earlier. John kept giggling at random intervals about the whole sex-in-the-cupboard charade, and was so persistently amused by it all that Sherlock finally demanded to know why.

“Do you mean to tell me,” said John, “That you don’t find the fact that we had to kiss and then pretend to have sex in a cupboard so that we could continue to work undercover on a case that was never properly a case and was solved half an hour later extremely funny?”

Sherlock conceded that there was indeed a funny side, and spent the next twenty hours periodically whispering things like: “I’m so proud of you darling” and “Dear god, John, yes yes, there, theeeeeeeere” and “Don’t worry about your kissing ability being wounded in action, John, I’m sure you’ll grow a new one” to John, just to make him laugh again.

Twenty hours later at the next port, John and Sherlock left the cruise.  Pat was there to wave them off tearily at the gangway, and John made an especial point of thanking him for making their short trip so very, very memorable.

“We could all see how very much you love each other,” said Pat earnestly, “Everything will work out. Just keep on loving him, John.”

“Oh, I will,” John assured him, and there was no acting required for that part, either.

 


End file.
